


Primal

by Bennyhatter



Category: The Walking Dead
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Animalistic Behavior, Biting, Bloodplay, Bondage, Cannibalism, Claiming Kink, Coming Untouched, Courting Behavior, Cum Inflation, Cumplay, Daryl is a mouthy shit, Daryl is not a wilting flower, Dominating Sex, Feral Behavior, Interspecies Sex, Knifeplay, Knotting, M/M, Marking, Mating Rituals, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Denial, Power Bottom Daryl, Rick is a wendigo, Rimming, Rough Sex, Scratching, Supernatural Creatures, Supernatural Elements, begging kink, bottom!daryl, breath play, coming til it hurts, dangerous character, dominant/submissive undertones, top!rick, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-06-02 01:45:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6545461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bennyhatter/pseuds/Bennyhatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Rick is a wendigo, Daryl is unafraid, and there is a lot of things that happen because of this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Romi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romi/gifts).



> Grimey_Dolly over in RWG has an amazing mind. She wanted Wendigo!Rick. I could not refuse.
> 
> Guys this is basically just going to be a lot of porn. A LOT of porn.
> 
> Mind the tags, seriously. This is your final warning.

"Son of a _bitch_!"

Daryl's shout echoes through the woods, but it doesn't matter anyway, because the deer his bolt had _missed_ is already long gone, along with any other prospective game. Maybe it's the fact that he hardly slept and so his concentration is shot. If Merle would just drop his cocaine habit as easily as he drops women, maybe the idiot wouldn't have to call his little brother and _badger_ him at two in the morning to _come an' rescue ol' Merle, baby bro; them pigs ain't good ta me here an' there ain't no cable._

Spitting out another cuss, Daryl slams his palm against the closest trunk and ignores the scraping pain that sparks across the toughened skin. Yanking his bolt out of the ground, he checks it for damage and chews angrily at his lip.

"Fuckin' ridiculous," he grumbles, sticking the shaft between his teeth and setting his crossbow down to draw the string back so he can try again. He should just go home, because he's been out since _dawn_ and he hasn't caught so much as a squirrel, but his stubbornness and his Dixon pride get in the way. He _refuses_ to slink home empty-handed, especially with Merle there to heckle him about letting a little tiredness get in the way.

Shaking his head, he rakes his fingers back through his sweaty, tangled hair and starts looking around for more tracks. There are plenty to follow, but no matter how quiet he is, no matter how hard he tries, he catches nothing. It's like the forest is in a state of nervous panic, a kind of tension thickening the air that sends predator and prey alike scurrying for their dens. By the time he realizes that giving in and going home is his only option, he's covered in sweat and dirt and he's _fuming_. He hasn't fared this badly during a hunt since he was in his teen years.

With nothing around to startle, he doesn't bother trying to quiet his footsteps as he stalks back toward the river. He knows his way through this forest blindfolded, but he enjoys having the fast-flowing water off to his side as he makes his way back home. The sound if it, the rumbling burble as it spills over small falls and laps at sedentary stones, is cathartic to him on most days.

Today it does nothing but beckon with a siren's song, calling out for him to cool his overheated body in the hopes that some of his anger will be cooled as well. Figuring that there's nothing else for him to do, he hangs the strap of his crossbow off a sturdy branch and strips quickly but efficiently.

Sliding into the chest-deep river, he hisses at the chilled water but sinks down until he's almost completely submerged. Sunlight sparkles off the rippling surface, his feet sink into the muddy silt along the bottom, and he tips his head back with a quiet sigh. Out here, in the forest, surrounded by nature and completely removed from the rest of society, Daryl feels the most at peace. The forest has only ever welcomed and sheltered him, has only ever fed him and treated him kindly.

Closing his eyes, he slips beneath the water and listens to the muted roar of it in his ears. He waits until his lungs are burning, testing himself, and then when it’s either give in or black out, he shoves himself back up and breaks the surface with a gasp; droplets flying when he shakes his head and rolling down his cheeks like relieved tears as he sucks in noisy breaths.

"You look like you're having fun."

Whirling around, he reaches for the knife that _isn't_ within reach before he's even aware that the man is between him and his weapons. His mind races, his blue eyes dark and wary as he looks the man over from head to toe and tries to still his twitching fingers. He's tall and lean, and the way his bright blue eyes are trained on Daryl raises the hairs at the nape of the hunter's neck and makes goosebumps shiver down his arms. That look is _predatory_ , glinting with the promise of danger if he moves the wrong way. There is a smile hovering at those full lips, but it is more like a challenge and less like a pleasantry.

"What if I am?" he grunts, eying the pristine curls and the grey blending into the man's short, rough beard. He's too clean, barely any sweat dampening his throat, and the aura he exudes is putting Daryl on edge. The hunter doesn’t like not having his weapons at the best of times, and like this, completely naked and without any form of protection, he feels like the gazelle being stalked by the lion. He opens his senses as much as he can, pinpointing any possible route of escape, because Daryl may be weaponless, but he’s not weak, and he’s not stupid. The man standing on the bank is just that—a man. If it comes to blows, he’s reasonably sure he can take the stranger out, or at least get the upper hand long enough to get away.

He knows one thing above all, though. This man is not safe.

"Never said there was anything _wrong_ with having a little fun. We all have our vices." The man shifts a little, and Daryl sees the thick sheath of a hunting knife at his hip. It’s completely at odds with the rest of him. He's wearing _sneakers_ and carrying a knife meant to skin and gut kills—is dressed in a pair of jeans not at all practical for pushing through briars and a t-shirt that is barely wet under his armpits.

"The hell're you doin' so far out in the woods lookin' like that?" Daryl snorts and deliberately does not turn his back to the other man. It's not just because of the scars, but also because those blue eyes are calculating as they observe him, gleaming with something that reminds him of a rabid beast's hunger. Waiting for him to slip.

"Figured it was a good day for a stroll." One long, elegant finger taps repeatedly at the man's belt, like he's restless or impatient. Daryl watches the way his other fingers spread down toward the knife and digs his toes into the thick muck of the river bottom, his muscles tensing slightly.

"With a blade like that?"

"The forest is full of dangerous predators." It's light and playful, and the words chill Daryl to his core. He feels like they're not just talking about natural predators right now, and he knows that true monsters come in all shapes and sizes—many times without the protective layer of fur or the danger of gleaming fangs. His father was one such predator, and Merle is a shadow of Will Dixon on his own—he’s violent like a fire that is mostly contained, and never lashes out with the intention of causing destruction physically. At least, not where Daryl is concerned. Merle has never left a single scar on him, although they’ve bruised one another plenty of times in their lives—have left scrapes and shed blood between them like quarreling pups even as they outgrew their awkward gaits and settled into the sure-footed prowl of predators.

This man in front of Daryl is a predator all his own, and one that does not forfeit easily. That much is easy to see in the challenging tilt of his head as he stares down at the archer, and never has he felt the difference in power between two beings more than he does between himself and the stranger who has interrupted his quiet relaxation. It makes him more brusque than he ought to be when he begins to wade from the deeper center of the stream and toward the shallows, caring little for the scars becoming visible across his torso because they are more easily explained away than the lashes that mar his back.

“Full’a fools, too,” he grunts, eyeing the man up and down deliberately. “You plannin’ on goin’ on a hike lookin’ like that? Yer an idiot.”

The man’s head lifts a little higher, his nostrils flaring and his eyes flashing dangerously. Daryl senses a beast coiling just beneath the surface, something wild and savage, and when the man bares his teeth in an approximation of a smile, he thinks of wolves and the mountain lions that prowl the forests and make their homes there, killing anything that dares challenge them.

“I’ve hiked through worse with a lot less,” he says mildly, and he moves out of the way so that Daryl can reach his clothes, but he does not stop watching. Being naked in front of him is not a comforting thing, and the archer wastes no time in dragging his clothes back on. He’ll be damp and even more irritated by the time he reaches home, but it’s a small price to pay to have at least a little bit of protection against the stare that burns into him and makes his abdominal muscles shiver and clench.

“You got a name, other than ‘idiot’?” It’s a deliberate jibe, because he wants to know how far he can push, how hard he can poke, before the cable snaps and the barricade falls. He wants to know what he’s up against, wants to know if he needs to run or if he’ll have to fight. At this point, watching those eyes darken to something almost black, he wonders if running would be the best idea. Something tells him it would do nothing but entice, and out of all the beasts he’d rather not have snapping at his heels, he thinks he’d like this man-shaped one the least.

“Rick Grimes. What about you, hunter? What is it they call you?”

That voice drops to a purr, the words rumbling and stroking at his shoulders like a physical touch. Rick is smiling at him in a way that is less vicious, but no less penetrative. He’s looking into Daryl, burrowing beneath his skin and flaying away the weak human frailties to find the answering beast that slumbers within him. It stirs, and his fists clench, and he deliberately draws his knife to check it; turning the gleaming steel in a way that catches the sunlight prettily and shows the finely-honed edge of the weapon.

“Daryl.”

“Well, Daryl, it’s been a pleasure to meet you. Maybe we’ll run into each other again, sometime. This conversation has been most… Enlightening.”

“Yeah?” Sheathing his blade, he slings his crossbow over his back and stands to his full height rather than slouching forward like he usually does. He and Rick are the same height, almost, although his shoulders are broader and Rick’s waist is thicker from muscle. “Don’t see how, considerin’ we ain’t said shit ta one another.”

“One does not always need to talk in order to speak volumes,” Rick purrs, and his parting grin makes Daryl’s stomach clench and his heart thump heavily—makes sweat prickle at his throat and heat burn across his cheeks. It’s alluring and sensual, _captivating_ , and even long after he’s alone, he feels like Rick’s presence still lingers. Only once the forest has started to stir, the animals creeping from their hiding places and bringing back the life that was silenced by fear, does he let his feet carry him along the river’s course, the water leading him home.

He shoots three rabbits and half a dozen squirrels before he makes it to his front door, and Merle’s voice raises in triumph at the haul even as his eyes glitter with something Daryl isn’t sure how to name as they settle in side-by-side to clean and skin the kills. Maybe there’s something about the way Daryl is moving, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s not in the mood to talk. Merle knows _something,_ though, but he keeps his silence because he also knows that breaking the tension will result in a scuffle that neither of them are in the mood to be playful over.

Daryl falls into bed that night, exhausted and barely awake enough to kick out of his clothes, and he’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.

 

\--

 

_The forest is eerily silent tonight, all of the nocturnal creatures tucked away in the deeper shadows, watching him lope by with glittering eyes. He’s bare-chested and barefoot, only his muddy jeans providing any measure of decency as he leaps over downed logs and springs from rock to rock, light and agile and free. Around him, the trees groan and creak, and the hair at the nape of his neck prickles with the sense of danger._

_“You think you can outrun me, pretty hunter?”_

_The voice is low and garbled, like the words come from a throat not normally designed for human speech. He shivers at the savage glee in the tone—the triumph of a beast that believes itself already victorious. This beast has never met him before, though, and Daryl’s grin is feral and bright as he plunges into the river and dives beneath the surface. He feels the scrape of claws at his back, but the beast comes up empty as he swims across the water and bursts into the night on the other side. His jeans are sodden and heavy, weighing him down, and he can hear the hiss of the predator as it darts away to find another place to cross._

_Daryl slinks through the shadowed woods, his pale skin a beacon that can easily be followed—water droplets rolling across his flesh and leaving him cleansed but for the mud he smears across the flawed canvas of his body when he drops and rolls and tries to mask his scent. His pursuer is clever, and so he must be even smarter, because as much fun as this chase is, and as much as he yearns to be caught and conquered, he cannot make it easy or the beast will get bored._

_“Come and get me,” he whispers, light and gleeful as a child, and he’s turning to run again when strong, roughened hands clamp down on his shoulders and still him._

_“I already have, my pretty little archer,” the beast hisses in delight, and Daryl turns his head to look at it but can see nothing but eyes that gleam with the captured light of the full moon. “You think you can escape? Do you truly want to?”_

_“No,” Daryl breathes, and it’s a lie and a truth simultaneously. He knows this is a dream, knows that the beast will kill him as quick as anything else, but his dream-self shivers in delight at the promise in that rumbling voice, and he’s already baring his throat to the blunt scrape of those thick, elongated teeth as a muzzle brushes against his jaw and a wet, warm nose nudges at his thundering pulse._

_“Gotcha,” Rick growls, and Daryl moans in agreement before letting himself be forced to the ground. His spine arches, his hips snugly fitting to the beast’s, and he feels the soft brush of short and long, thick fur alike—velvety smooth and laying over supple muscles that harden to steel as he is pinned and made helpless, his wrists caught in a clawed grip that promises pain if he tries to wriggle free._

_“Please,” he moans; spreading his legs wide to let Rick closer, and a hot gust of musky air blows across his lips. In a heartbeat he is naked, spread wide and already loose and open, and he feels the thick head of a strange cock nudging just behind his balls, seeking what he so willingly gives, and when that cock slams home with no pain, he throws his head back and **screams** —_

And wakes with a gasp, jackknifing into a sitting position just in time to slap a hand over his mouth and muffle his moan as he comes hard into the clinging fabric of his boxers. He’s covered in sweat from head to toe, his hair plastered to his forehead and his muscles jumping like he’s having a seizure as his hips buck and his arm gives out, tumbling him back against the mattress. His head hits the pillow and his neck arches, his palm the only thing muffling his pleasure as his cock spurts and he smears cum across the inside of his boxers.

“Fuck,” he gasps once he has enough breath to do so, panting against the side of his wrist and glaring at the ceiling. What the hell was _that_? He’s had his fair share of wet dreams before, but none so vivid and easily remembered as that one. He has _never_ dreamed about someone he only met once, either—has barely dreamed about anyone at all, and no one he _knew_ when he was having those dreams in his teenage years. The thing of it is that he doesn’t even know Rick, and there is no rhyme or reason he can fathom why he’d have a dream like that about someone who had put him on edge so thoroughly.

The old pine right outside his room scratches at his window with bare, searching branches, and Daryl sits back up in bed to scowl down at the mess he’s made of his boxers. He’s cum so much that it’s leaking through, leaving them sticking to him with sweat and his own cooling release. He can feel it matting his pubic hair and dripping between his clenching cheeks, and he resigns himself to a quick, cold shower before he has to get going to work. Merle sleeps like the dead, thankfully, and he can hear his brother still snoring loudly as he strips himself out of his soiled underwear and chucks them toward the hamper—barely misses and snorts in frustration before grabbing his ratty old towel and heading to get cleaned up.

By the time the sun has started to lighten the dark sky, Daryl is showered and dressed, his hair still clinging damply to his nape as he slides into his truck and slams the door shut. Before he turns it on, he sits and looks out toward the forest, letting the peaceful sounds of the morning birdsong soothe the last of his agitation away before he starts the beat-up old truck and drowns out nature’s symphony with the roar of commercialism.

“Fuckin’ dreams,” he mutters angrily to himself, and he lets that be the last of it before thumping his head back against the seat and heading into town to the site where he and his crew are supposed to be working for the next few weeks.

Working in construction is not his dream job, but Daryl never finished high school and his options for work were limited. He’s good with his hands, and he’s a lot smarter than people give him credit for—something he tends to use to his advantage. His supervisor certainly never has any complaints, because he’s an efficient worker and he knows how to do the job right the first time. Besides that, the pay is good, and he doesn’t really have any room to complain at the end of the day.

Daryl is distracted—maybe by the thought of ten hours of pouring concrete and hammering nails. Maybe even a little bit by the remnants of the dream that still cling stubbornly to the edges of his mind and leave him feeling a little warmer than he should. Either way, he’s almost on top of the buck before he sees it, and the tires squeal alarmingly when he slams his foot down on the brake pedal and swerves to miss the carcass.

“Shit!”

Kicking the door open, he tumbles out onto the asphalt and jerks around to stare at the dead buck with wide, wild eyes. It’s laid out in the center of the road like an offering, its throat torn out and its coagulated blood darkening the road around it in a dark, tacky puddle. The deer is an impressive specimen—certainly would have fed him and Merle for _months_ , but the meat is probably ruined by now, and the way the belly has been torn open, organs and viscera spilling out onto the pavement, points toward an act of violence rather than care. He can smell shit and piss and _knows_ that whoever did this, _whatever_ did this, didn’t do it to survive. No meat has been stripped from the carcass, and the antlers are intact. This wasn’t a trophy kill, not in that regard—this is a sign.

 _Look at what I can do,_ it screams, and Daryl shudders as he backs away a few steps and looks around. The forest is silent and still again, the shadows thrown by the trees crawling toward him ominously as the sun rises and the asphalt heats up beneath his boots. By the end of the day, this kill will be swarming with flies and maggots, the meat beginning to rot unless another predator comes along to scavenge what it can.

There is all manner of junk thrown into the back of his pickup, and he digs out a coil of rope; thanking whatever God might be listening that he always tries to be prepared for any situation. He makes quick work of tying the buck’s hind legs, and drags the body off the road. He tries to ignore the sound of its intestines catching and pulling, the wet squelch of them as they slip further out of the body and the scent of urine intensifies as a dark yellow puddle trails after him.

Once he’s got the buck dumped far enough away from the road to be hidden from anyone else that might be passing by, he throws the bloodied rope back into the bed and grabs his construction shovel. He’ll hose it off when he gets to the site—for now he uses it to scrape the bits of organ and coils of intestines that got left behind off the pavement.

By the time he’s back behind the wheel, he’s shaking a little bit, so he takes a few deep, steadying breaths and looks out into the silent forest. For a second, he sees the flicker of a shadow and squints, but he can’t make anything out and he figures it’s probably just some animal that has heard him making a racket and has come to watch from afar and judge the level of danger.

“Fuck this day.” Starting the truck again, he drives over the puddles of blood he couldn’t quite get rid of and tries to ignore the thick trails of coagulated red his tires leave as he drives away. He glances in the rearview mirror once and sees nothing, so he settles his eyes back on the road ahead of him and tries to leave everything else behind, hidden in the shadows and lurking where it belongs.

Hopefully his day improves from here.

 

\--

 

Daryl’s day doesn’t improve. By the time ten o’clock rolls around, it’s already over one hundred degrees, and the humidity is obscene. He’s drenched in sweat and nursing a foul mood as he sets posts and pours concrete—hammers beams and lays linoleum. No one tries to talk to him after he cusses out Bob for dropping a box of nails and scattering them everywhere, and Abraham just favors him with an unimpressed stare before pointing at an unopened box of nails and walking away. Daryl isn’t stupid enough to try and flip off his supervisor visibly, so he just grabs the box and goes back to work, trying to keep his temper under control.

He even manages to apologize to Bob, who accepts with a smile and offers a bottle of cold water, which Daryl takes gratefully. He scrounges up a smile and drinks deeply, and then the two of them work quietly side-by-side until it’s time for lunch.

Georgia’s summers are unforgivable to those who aren’t used to them, and even to those who are. Daryl has lived in this state his whole life—was raised deep in her mountain forests and reared on her wild soul. He’s as wild as a man can be, and it’s a ferocity that follows him into most situations, even when it’s not called for. It’s partially what makes it so hard for others to approach him, because his tongue is sharp and the barbs sink easily into soft, unprepared flesh and flay it open in wounds that aren’t seen but are definitely felt and linger long after the anger has faded.

The Dixon temper is legendary, although Daryl’s manifests through words whereas Merle is not afraid of a good brawl—even seems to revel in it when he’s the right combination of drunk, angry, and high. Daryl will fight if he has to, if he’s backed into a corner and there’s no other way out, but otherwise he uses his words to make people cower away. It leaves an open path in front of him, potential friends and enemies alike parting like the sea whenever he walks by. It’s a lonely existence, but it’s his, and so he makes the best of the hand he’s been dealt. No Dixon was ever meant for anything better, and he knows he should be happy with his lot in life. For the most part, he’s just indifferent.

The rest of the time, he’s lonely. He’s not _sad_ , not really, because being miserable will solve nothing. He won’t let himself wallow and be a _whiny bitch_ , so he learned long ago to grit his teeth, keep his head high, and take the good with the bad. Maybe some day the happiness will outweigh the pain. Maybe it won’t. Either way, it is inevitable and far off in the future, so for now he gets through his days and tries to remember that Merle is only an idiot because he saw no other viable option for himself, and that he does not have to follow in his big brother’s footsteps and make those same choices.

He won’t be like their father. He refuses.

By the time the sun is setting, Daryl is covered in sweat and grime and his shoulders sting from the faint sunburn he’d acquired while nailing down the shingles for the roof. It’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before, so he ignores the aloe Bob offers with a quick shake of his head and punches out for the night.

“See you at the asscrack of dawn,” Abraham says by way of farewell, flicking his fingers in a salute. “Gonna start puttin’ up the walls and gettin’ the insulation in. Wear shitty clothes.”

“You say that like I got anythin’ _but_ shitty clothes,” Daryl snorts. They clasp forearms, the broad ginger man chuckling and shaking his head in a way that’s more fondly amused than anything else.

“You’re a real piece’a work, you know that, Dixon?”

“You’re a real cockbite, Ford. You know _that_?”

“I do indeed.”

They share a grin, although Daryl’s is a little smaller and a lot more awkward. He’s not used to really getting along with people, but Abraham is a guy he can understand—ex-army, ballsy, take-no-prisoners, and he’s got a sense of humor that would make even Satan blush. Half the time he’s lewd to anyone that looks at him, and Daryl isn’t entirely convinced that he’s as straight as he portrays himself to be. It’s certainly an interesting thought, because Abraham is ridiculously attractive, even despite being a man who constantly acts like every little thing has the potential to piss him off, he’s just too amused to do anything about it.

Coughing and stubbornly pretending it’s all of the dust he’s inhaled, he turns away from his supervisor and heads for his truck. His body aches in a good way, the sweat drying on his skin and making him itch reminding him that he’s put in a hard day’s work—that he hasn’t skated by and weaseled his way through life on anything but his own merit. Merle has his drugs, has his new looming trial awaiting him, and his brother is okay with that life. It’s the only way he knows how to cope. Daryl _can’t_ , though, and he won’t. He’ll survive on his own power or he’ll lay down and die. There can be no in-between for him.

His thoughts come to an abrupt halt when he sees the smears of red on the handle of his door. Reaching for the small pocket knife he always carries when his hunting knife isn’t an option, he prowls closer to get a better look. He’d left his window down, not willing to suffer a cab that had been closed up and overheated all day, and he peers warily in through the opening.

There is what looks like the remains of a rabbit on the driver’s seat. He recognizes the bloodstained paws and the long ears, but the skull has been crushed and the belly is torn open just like the buck’s had been. This damage is on a much smaller scale, and he sees that great pains were taken this time to keep the meat from being ruined.

 _I did this for you,_ he reads in the display, and it makes him grit his teeth and swing around to see if there’s anyone nearby. His truck is the only one left in the lot, everyone else is _gone_ , and he highly doubts Abraham would have kept quiet if he’d seen someone sneaking around and reaching into peoples’ cars with mangled forest animals.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he mutters, feeling a little coil of nervous panic tingle at the base of his spine. He shoves the carcass across the bench until it’s pressed against the other side and climbs in. His pants are going to be stained by the blood, but he’s had a lot worse, and as much as he wants to hurl the _offering_ out the window while he’s driving home, something tells him not to. It’s a crackle of danger at the edge of his awareness, something liquid and lethal that slips into his senses with the ease of a stalking predator and makes his hands tremble when he tries to start his truck. It follows him the entire way back home, the scent of blood filling his nose and his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel as he keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the road.

Merle is gone when he gets back, his motorcycle missing and the house dark. Daryl isn’t sure whether that should be a good or a bad thing, but at least it means his brother isn’t around to badger him about the rabbit and what the fuck happened to make it look the way it does.

There’s a pile of bloody organs on his front porch, arranged in a deliberate display on the middle of the top step, and he steps very carefully around it. He sees a heart, a liver, and kidneys, all of them large enough to have come from a bigger animal.

“What the fuck is this?”

He should burn all of this, should dig a hole and bury it, but that feeling of being watched, of something _waiting_ to strike, makes him take the rabbit inside and come back with a platter for the organs. He arranges them the same way they’d been left for him, and he’d swear he feels something like _approval_ as he goes back inside and kicks his door shut.

Daryl skins the rabbit and gets what meat he can from it, cutting it up along with the organs and looking at the bloody mound of cubed meat leaking blood all over his counter. There are smears of red all the way up his arms, a few streaks swiped across his cheek and painting his mouth from when he’d wiped a hand over his lips. It’s matted into his beard, the taste of it heavy on his tongue. He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, but he picks up a chunk of liver and pops it into his mouth while it’s still raw, his teeth cutting through the chewy organ and his jaw working as a trail of red trickles from the corner of his mouth. It drips onto his dirty shirt, and he glances down at the splatter as he swallows.

In the end, he fries it up and eats every bite, sucking the juices from his fingers and wondering if this’ll be the thing that kills him. He doubts someone would go through the trouble of poisoning so much meat and leaving it like gifts for him to find, but if that is the case then at least he’ll die with a full stomach and in his own bed, rather than suffering a slow starvation in a gutter somewhere.

The sky is midnight-blue by the time he crawls into bed, showered and clean and naked to combat the thick, blanket-like heat of Georgia’s summer. He doesn’t even bother with a sheet, just stretches out and rests a hand low on his stomach; tucking the other one under his head and glancing out the window beside him to watch the stars twinkle merrily in the cloudless sky—the moon hanging fat and heavy and almost full, offering silvery touches of light that brush across his skin and freckle patterns on his cheeks.

Breathing out a slow, tired sigh, Daryl closes his eyes and lets sleep take him.

 

\--

 

_The forest is just as dark as it was the last time he dreamt like this, the shadows reaching out and curling across his naked flesh as Daryl lopes through the trees on his way to the river. He’s covered in dirt from head to toe, his hair wild and tangled through with twigs the way it has always been meant for—his wild heart beating with joy as he follows the sound of rushing water and keeps his ears attuned for the predator that slinks after him._

_Dropping to his knees on the bank, he reaches out and cups the cool, dark liquid in his palms, bringing it to his mouth and drinking quickly before too much escapes and runs in rivulets down his throat and chest. When cool droplets roll across his nipples, he shivers and tries to repress his rumbling whine._

_“Such a pretty sight you make, my hunter.”_

_Rick’s voice is low and dark, his skin just as pale and as bare as Daryl’s when he melds out of the trees. His head is tilted, a pleased smirk pulling his lips back from teeth that don’t look human. His eyes are like mercury, swirling and possessive and touched by a feral fever that Daryl cannot tame._

_“Could say the same for you,” he teases back, deliberately wiping his hand down his chest and leaving a shining trail because he knows what that does to the beast that masks himself as a man. It gets the reaction he was expecting—rouses the response he was hoping for. Heat curls low in his belly, his cock swelling eagerly between his legs, when Rick growls and begins to circle closer._

_Suddenly Daryl feels how open and empty he is, cum and saliva dripping from his gaping hole, and he feels no shame in the way he lowers his chest to the ground and raises his ass high, putting himself on display for the beast and looking back over his shoulder with an inviting smirk. His eyes are black in the darkness, the perfect contrast to Rick’s glowing silver, and he tilts his hips invitingly._

_“You gonna stare, or are ya gonna do somethin’ ‘bout it?” he whispers, and his voice is lost on the winds when Rick mounts him and pushes his head down with a clawed hand. He moans and claws at the loose earth, feeling the man’s thick cockhead nudge at his eager opening._

_“You know what I want to hear, pretty little human,” Rick rumbles in his ear, and Daryl **moans** in shameless delight when he rocks back and feels the other man start to press inside of him. The slide is easy, but the stretch still makes his eyes roll back in his head. He chokes on a sob when Rick’s hand drops down to tighten around his neck, claws pressing in just enough to feel the danger and heighten the pleasure._

_“Fuck me,” he rattles out, digging his toes in for a little bit of leverage as he bucks up and back and screams through the pressure and force of Rick slamming inside of him. “ **Fuck me** , c’mon, know ya can do better’n that.”_

_“You’re right,” the beast agrees, and Daryl feels the cock in him grow and swell, the new length and girth bringing tears to his eyes and making his mouth drop open in a pitiful whimper even as he forces himself back harder to take all of it. Hands roughened by thick pads grip him tight enough to bruise, littering his skin with marks of possession. He feels those claws scrape down his back, his spine bowing reflexively before he arches with a snarl, and his forehead hits the ground hard enough to hurt as Rick lays over him and rolls his hips in quick, dirty shoves. Fur brushes his heated skin, smearing musky pheromones through his sweat, and Daryl **knows** that he’ll reek of Rick’s claim. It thrills him, makes him as wild as he has always been meant to be, and he reaches back to grab a handful of thick hair but finds smooth, hardened antlers and velvet-soft ears instead._

_“Rick,” he whines, turning his head and panting hotly against the blunt, furry muzzle, and Rick licks a wet, broad stripe across his parted lips. “C’mon, fuckin’ **do it**.”_

_“Patience, darling one. You will receive it when you are deserving.”_

_“Like I ain’t always?” Daryl snorts—the sound starting off as affronted and ending as a ragged keen as Rick’s next thrust makes his knees buckle and sends him crashing to the ground. Only the beast’s quick grab at his hip keeps him from slamming his cock painfully into the dirt, and the way he’s yanked back into the next thrust makes him howl and clench down around the thick, perfect cock inside of him. He turns and **bites** , teeth sinking into supple flesh, and when hot blood spills across his tongue and drips from his chin, he comes so hard and so loudly that it echoes through the night and drives the shadows back._

_Rick **roars** and sinks his teeth into Daryl’s nape, agony and pleasure blending into a mixture as the base of his cock swells and he drags the archer back onto his knot, locking them together and pouring stream after stream of cum into Daryl’s eager, clenching body—filling him until it **hurts** and he’s desperate for **more** , little fucked-out pants and keens slipping out as they rut together beneath the full moon—_

Daryl comes awake violently, his echoing cry bouncing off the walls of his room as he writhes across his bed and turns to bite his pillow. He’s covered in his own cum, his hole tight and aching and _empty_ , and he’s already teasing wet fingers into himself before he’s fully conscious and aware of what he’s doing. His hips jerk, his ass clenches, and he feels like he’s coming again, the orgasm stripping itself from his marrow until he’s spent and shaky and covered in sweat, his own musky scent filling his nose and seeming lacking. It’s not primal enough, not dark enough—just not _enough._

He moans and bites at his pillow harder, fisting a hand in the wrecked sheets, and hides his shame as he shoves a third finger in and relishes the resulting burn, wishing for something thicker and longer and _better_ as his glassy eyes stare out into the pre-dawn light and his ears catch the faint rumble of far-off thunder. A storm is brewing, threatening to unleash a downpour that will wash everything clean, and Daryl thinks of dark curls and predatory eyes, and he wonders if the rain will be metaphorical or literal, and why someone he’s met _once_ has already fucked him up so badly and made him crave something he’d never cared much about before.

Why is danger so alluring, when the predator you face is just as likely to slaughter you as anything else?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this took forever, but hey, look, porn!
> 
> I've never written cum inflation before. All of this is so much fun. *purrs*
> 
> ENJOY YOU KINKY CREATURES.

A week after the buck, Daryl steps out onto the porch and finds a bear in the front yard. He stares at it helplessly, already feeling the familiar buzz of heat beneath his skin. He’s come more in the last seven days than he probably has in the last five months, and every night his dreams are full of Rick and a dark beast that parades itself as a man.

What the hell he’s supposed to do with four hundred pounds of black bear, he has no idea. There’s no way he can move a carcass that size, not without Merle knowing.

Merle, who is already sitting on one of the rickety old porch chairs with his feet propped up on the railing, a beer sweating in his hand and an unlit cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. “Looks like we got us a gift, baby brother,” he grunts, looking from the bear slumped not even five feet from the steps and then at Daryl. There’s something in his eyes, something dark and searching, and the younger Dixon avoids his gaze as he stalks down to get a better look at the creature—hunkers down and rocks back on his haunches as he cocks his head to the side.

Just like the others—the buck, the rabbit, the opossums and _all of the rest_ —the bear’s throat has been ripped out in an act that speaks of savagery, and its stomach has been torn open to spill its organs out across the grass in a sick display of looping intestines and still-steaming meat. The edges of the wound are jagged, like they were made by a clawed hand instead of a sharp knife.

 _Look at how I can provide for you_ , it screams, and he shudders faintly before standing and wiping at his mouth with the side of his wrist. “Think it’s still good?” he asks, looking back at Merle. It’s a useless question, because he already knows the truth—none of the meat has ever been bad, and the only grisly offering Daryl hasn’t accepted was the first buck. “S’a good chunk’a meat, there.”

“You wanna gut it and eat it, you go right ahead.” Merle’s feet hit the porch with an echoing thump as he stands up. “I don’t much fancy figurin’ out if it’s poisoned or not. Don’t know what the hell kinda beast can take down a fully-grown bull bear like that, li’l brother, but I sure as fuck ain’t gonna try’n find out.”

He goes inside, and Daryl turns to look at the carcass again, his fingers twitching and his blood thrumming with something primal and greedy. His humanity balks at all of this, at _craving_ this the way he does, but every night he closes his eyes and dreams about writhing across the forest floor, a little more of his hesitance chips away like shards of ice. He’s being whittled into what he’s always been meant for, carved by a master’s hand until the beauty within is reflected for all to see.

Daryl does not belong in society. He prowls the edges like a starving wolf, his eyes sharp and hungry as he watches the sheep and waits. The longing in his gut is an empty, echoing pang, and it is not a need that can be satisfied by simple touches or gentle words. He was _made_ for rough and frantic, for scraped knees and bruised wrists; made for passion that didn’t stem from the desire to destroy, but rather _create_. He’s been led there by a patient, guiding hand, and now this gift has knocked that last little bit of wary hesitation loose. He breathes in, and the air is ripe with promise and wicked danger, and he feels like there are eyes on him when he turns toward the shed to get his tools.

Merle comes back out when he’s shoulder-deep in the bear’s belly, shifting coils of intestines out of the way to get to the richer organs. There’s blood on his face, more of it matted in his beard in a way he is becoming intimately familiar with, and he favors his brother with a brief glance before turning back to his task. The buckets beside him are already filled with useable meat, and he knows he’s going to have to get them bagged and in the freezer before too much longer. The scent of blood and death and anticipation fills his nose in a heady mixture, and he’s chewed his lower lip raw and sore.

“Headin’ out for a drink, little brother,” Merle says, and his voice is low, rasps in that familiar drag like every syllable has to be spit past resisting teeth. “Don’ wait up for me.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” he mutters, his cheek pressed against dark fur that’s clumped and made tacky by blood. His eyes flutter closed, and he rubs his cheek against the bear’s shoulder a little bit, another breath shuddering out of him, and he hears Merle’s quiet noise but doesn’t look over. A moment later, the motorcycle roars to life, and he hears the spray and crunch of dirt and gravel as it’s swung around.

“Happy hunting,” his brother barks over the sound, and then he’s gone and Daryl rocks back again, bringing his hand up to his mouth and distractedly sucking the still-warm blood from his fingers as he looks out toward the forest.

“I know you’re there, fucker,” he mutters, his mouth stained red and the taste of copper and life heavy on his tongue. Dragging his shirt off, he tosses the ruined, blood-wet fabric to the side and sees the smears of red already marking his chest. There’s a fine tremble in his muscles, an excited sort of energy, and he’s about to start carving more meat from the bones when he hears the deliberate snap of a twig under a heavy tread.

Looking up over the side of the bear, he watches with dark, glittering eyes as Rick prowls out of the woods. The man is shirtless, his jeans smeared with dirt and blood and clinging to his hips in a way that makes the archer want to roll over and show his belly. There’s more blood painted across the man’s throat and mouth, and his eyes are like liquid pools of mercury, everything swallowed up by the marbled, swirling silver-grey as he circles closer and closer and cocks his head to the side like a curious beast.

“You do not like my gifts?” he rumbles, and that voice sinks into Daryl’s flesh like a claim, scraping his nerve endings raw and making him blink away the blurriness brought by the overwhelming surge of _want_ that sparks through his veins and makes his cock swell in his jeans. He licks his lips, lapping up the blood there and tilting his head a little bit to mimic Rick as he watches the predator.

“Tell me why,” Daryl growls. His eyes follow Rick’s every shift, as sharp as a hunting hawk. He misses nothing, and his abdominals flex and clench when Rick crouches down to pick up a chunk of meat from one of the buckets. His thighs are thick and _obscene_ , the denim of his dark jeans molding around them in a way that makes the archer want to whimper. When the meat is brought to that full mouth, he watches the lips curl back to expose gleaming teeth, and he bites his lip again when they sink into the bloody hunk of muscle and tear a piece free. Rick watches him as he chews, more blood spilling down his chin and getting lost in his beard until it drips from the saturated ends.

“Why does any beast try to prove its prowess to another?” Rick licks his lips even though it does no good—rips another chunk of meat free and lays the rest back in its bucket before slinking toward Daryl. He watches the man approach, his muscles going tense and then relaxing as he contemplates the merits of running or remaining, and what either outcome could result in. He wonders which risk would offer the greater reward, and suddenly wants to find out more than anything.

“You tryin’ ta prove somethin’ ta me?” Tilting his head back a little when Rick’s shadow falls over him, he squints up at the man and doesn’t flinch away from the bloody fingers that brush against his cheek, rough knuckles running down the line of his jaw and nudging under his chin to urge him to bare his throat a little bit more. He does so, going liquid and malleable until he no longer needs to be. As much as he recognizes the predator moving and shaping him, he also recognizes that the level of danger is a lower simmer—something just threatening to boil over, but lacking the dangerous edge that precedes a violence he is wholly uncomfortable with. None of his father’s particular brand of rage is present in the way Rick crouches down, keeping his head above Daryl’s like a wolf asserting its dominance as his thumb tucks into the corner of the archer’s mouth and coaxes his jaw open.

Their lips meet, blood and saliva mingling, and when the sliver of meat is pushed past his teeth, he accepts it with the gentleness of a lamb. There’s nothing sweet or soft in the way he sucks Rick’s tongue after swallowing the morsel, chasing the last of the flavors and groaning quietly before ripping himself free and glaring into those swirling, mercurial eyes.

“I’m not tryin’ to _prove_ anything,” Rick says, low and dark and _powerful_ as he nudges Daryl’s head back farther and rubs his bearded chin against the sensitive, sweat-damp flesh. Daryl shivers, a tiny sound escaping him, and then he shoves the other man back and bares his teeth.

“Keep it in yer pants. Meat’s gonna go bad soon if I don’ get it outta th’ sun.”

Rick chuckles like he’s genuinely amused by Daryl, nipping at his throat in a way that makes the hunter hiss at the throb of pleasure-pain. He watches the man get up, eyeing him to make sure he won’t try anything else, but Rick gives him his space and begins to lope around the small clearing Daryl’s house is situated in, his eyes roving over and through the trees—darting back to Daryl every once and a while, who gets caught staring every time while hunger claws at his insides and his cock aches.

“Did ya hafta kill such a damn big beast?” he grumbles, thoughtlessly popping another chunk of raw meat into his mouth and sucking his fingers clean as he carves and tries to figure out how he’s going to fit all of this into the ice chest tucked away in the shed. Thankfully it had been getting bare recently anyway, but with all of the dead animals Rick has been leaving for him, he’s running out of space to put everything.

“It was necessary, yes. Leave what you can’t take. We can share it later.”

The way Rick says it, like there’s no doubt in his mind that that is _exactly_ what will happen, makes Daryl want to quip back about overconfidence and ego. The damning thing of it, though, is that he’s already ready for _anything_ that’s coming his way after all of the dreams he’s been having. He has no idea what any of it means, has no idea what Rick _is_ , but after so many nights of looking into those same eyes, even if the face was sometimes different, he finds himself unafraid to see them in the real, waking world.

With nothing else to do and no room to take what’s still left, Daryl begins hauling the buckets to the shed so he can package and store the meat. Rick follows after him, his silent, prowling shadow, and the heat of the man’s gaze burns his skin deeper than the sun could ever reach, setting his blood alight and making him almost dizzy. He’s so hard it _hurts_ , and he palms himself with a bloodstained hand after dropping the first two buckets—bows his head forward and groans at the friction and how _good_ it feels. When a hot chest presses up against his bare back, a nose snuffling into the damp strands of hair at his nape, he shivers and rumbles before turning and shoving Rick back. The man growls at him, his eyes blazing and his lips twitching, and Daryl growls right back before stepping past him and going out to get the rest of the meat.

It's a waiting game after that, the tension making the air crackle as it thickens. He almost wants to drag it out, wants to play coy and make Rick wait until the pressure snaps like breaking bones, but something tells him that it’s not a good idea to toy with the beast pacing just beyond the door. He’s too impatient now anyway, the rich scent of blood and the presence that lays over his mind like a thick blanket making him rush through getting the meat in airtight, sealed bags before shoving it into the freezer along with the remains of the doe Rick left him on Tuesday.

“Ain’t gotta bring no more fuckin’ meals,” he huffs as he turns, and the only warning he gets is a flash at the corner of his eye before Rick slams into him and forces him back against the lid of the freezer. Daryl’s spine arches sharply, pain making him hiss, but he’s already hooking an ankle around the back of Rick’s calf and grabbing a handful of those curls as his head tips back and his eyes go dark and hooded.

“Are you done playing games?” Rick growls against his collarbone, and Daryl’s grin is slow and wicked as he rocks his hips up to feel the hard, hot swell of the man’s cock where it’s trapped behind those stained, filthy jeans.

“Never gonna be done,” he purrs, biting a little too hard at the swell of one tanned shoulder before he shoves the other man back. He’s expecting resistance and gets none, which means Rick is already prepared for anything he could possibly do, and he _likes_ the way those eyes sear into his soul as he slips past the man and makes a point of rubbing against him like a cat. “Gonna make ya work for it every step’a th’ way, fucker.”

“I would accept nothing less,” the beast rumbles back, and Daryl’s grin is as sharp as Rick’s teeth as he turns and bolts toward the woods. He enters the close press of the trunks with all the familiarity of coming home, weaving amongst the branches and ducking to avoid the reach of some as he heads for the river where it all began. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but he imagines he can hear Rick’s hot, excited breaths behind him as he runs, and it ignites the need in him even further. Daryl would be tempted to stop and strip off the rest of his clothes, but pausing for even a moment will put him at a disadvantage and he knows it, so he pushes forward and leaps over a downed log, scraping his palm on the rotting trunk and ignoring the sting as he keeps going.

He can just see the sunlight sparkling off the surface of the rippling water when a body slams into his. They go down hard, his head cracking off the side of a rock, and his snarl is drowned out by Rick’s louder, deeper noise of triumph. Fingers curl around his wrists and pin them to the ground, and Daryl’s already snapping his teeth in preparation to bite when he finally gets a good look at Rick and freezes.

“Got you.” Rick grins with a dark, blunt muzzle, his white teeth gleaming in contrast to the black fur and lips. His eyes look impossibly more silver and fathomless, large and almond-shaped and set apart a little wider. He looks like a mixture between man and deer, just like in the dreams, although his teeth are too sharp and his antlers look like black bone. All over he is clearly _not natural_ , but fuck if Daryl has ever been more turned on in his _life_.

“Yeah, you did,” he breathes, glancing to the side to see the long, clawed fingers wrapped around his wrist hard enough to almost hurt, and he lives for the pain; shuddering and canting his hips up hopefully, his legs falling open for Rick to settle between them. He gets a glimpse of the man’s lower half and sees a thick curtain of fur hiding what he’s hoping is a cock that’s just as impressive as the one from his dreams, as well as a hint of the cloven-toed hooves he was expecting. Flicking his gaze back to Rick’s face, he grins and presses his nose into the thick layer of fur that circles the beast’s throat like an elk’s ruff. “Whatcha gonna do ‘bout it now, big guy?”

“ _Everything_ ,” the beast growls, and it sends a shudder of _want_ through Daryl—hits his bloodstream like a bolt of pure lust and makes him drop his head back to show the line of his sweat-damp throat. A wide, wet nose snuffles at his Adam’s apple, the narrow chest above him rising and falling with quick huffs as Rick breathes him in deeply.

“Oh yeah?” Daryl taunts. He knows he’s playing with something he has no control over, something that’s wild and untamed that could kill him just as easily as snapping twigs. For now, that violence is mostly contained, and he wants to bring more of it out. He wants to play with this monster, wants to run his fingers through the short fur and slice them on the pointed teeth. He wants to rut and be wild, wants to be _claimed_ , but like fuck is he going to make it easy.

There’s no fun in that.

Rick’s nostrils flare, his swirling eyes narrowing, and Daryl laughs as he bucks and brings his knee up to kick the creature’s legs apart and try to scramble free. Rick hisses and digs his claws in harder, until the rich, ripe smell of blood spills between them. Daryl snaps his teeth together, just barely missing one large, twitching ear, and then fingers are tightening around his throat like unbreakable bands of iron and his head slams back against the forest floor hard enough to make his vision blur.

“Bring it on, big boy,” he wheezes, and Rick snaps his own teeth just a hair’s breadth from the hunter’s face before the entire world spins and Daryl finds himself on his knees. His hands are caught under him, digging into moss and dirt, and his cheek is being scraped raw on a rock. It hurts, but it fuels his lust even more; makes him bow his back and arch his hips higher as his lips curl back and he snarls into the leaf litter when his pants are torn to shreds and the skin beneath is marked with thin lines of fire from the careless claws that catch across his thighs.

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” Rick rumbles, and the archer shivers in delight even as his stomach clenches and his shoulders tense. The beast is right—he has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. He has no idea what kind of power Rick must hold, to have reduced him to such a wanton creature as he spreads his legs regardless of the danger and presses his face harder into the rock. He’s never been like this, never _wanted_ to be like this, but somewhere between their first meeting and every lust-soaked, thrilling dream, Daryl has decided he doesn’t _care_.

“Better make it worth my while,” the hunter hisses, turning his head enough to grin wolfishly at Rick. The beast is crouched above him, oddly-shaped legs spread wide and a thick, pink cock slipping from its hidden sheath. It fills with blood, oozing pale white at the tip, and Daryl’s mouth floods with saliva when he sees just how _big_ it is. The tip is pointed, the base swollen strangely, but he remembers well enough from his dreams just what that is, and he keens gutturally when his eyes snap from the twitching organ and meet Rick’s pleased smirk.

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

Daryl huffs to disguise his moan. “Cocky, ain’t ya?”

“You’re one to talk, pretty hunter. Think you’re ready enough for me still?”

Eyes going wide, Daryl digs his nails harder into the ground beneath him when soft, silky fur slides against his back. Fingers curl around his throat again, keeping his head tilted back, and one of the clawed tips slips into his open, gasping mouth when he feels the heat radiating from the creature that has just _mounted_ him. His thin lips close around the finger, his tongue curling against the pointed claw, and the taste of blood coats his tastebuds and makes his eyes roll back in his head. His moan is deep and ragged, his mouth falling open again in a choked-off scream as he feels the head of that peculiar cock nudge against his hole.

The only prep is what little pre-cum has already leaked from the tip and rolled down the thick girth—the traces of lube still inside of Daryl from the last time he’d fucked himself with his own fingers and bit into his pillow until it tore to muffle his sounds. It wasn’t all that long ago, but three fingers could never prepare him for what’s pressing its way inside of him now, carving a place for Rick that only he has ever gained the right to claim. Daryl bites through his lip to keep himself from whimpering at the burning stretch. He’s _never_ felt so full, never felt like his lungs were crawling up his throat and his insides were twisting and morphing to accommodate something that had never found a home in him before.

Fingers slip into his mouth, two of them pumping lazily across his tongue, and Daryl bites down on them until the flesh tears beneath his teeth and hot blood sizzles against his lips and tongue. His moan is drowned out by Rick’s roar, and the archer has a moment to regret his cheek and challenge when the beast thrusts forward and scrapes away at his internal walls until he’s seated fully. Tears burn at the corners of Daryl’s eyes, the heat and overwhelming _fullness_ almost too much for him to bear. He blinks rapidly, refusing to give in when they’ve barely just begun, and sucks the blood from the fingers still heavy over his tongue until something that reminds him of a purr rumbles from deep in Rick’s narrow chest. He feels the bumps of the creature’s ribs on either side of his spine, the emaciated dip of Rick’s abdomen pressed into his lower back, and he wonders how something so seemingly frail could possess such supernatural strength.

“Are we having fun yet?” the beast snarls in his ear, dark and chilling and sensual in a way that makes Daryl’s muscles jump and spasm. He clenches around the cock inside of him, a strangled whine half-caught in his throat, and forces the fingers scraping across the insides of his mouth back out so he can turn to look back at Rick. He already knows what he must look like, his cheeks flushed and his eyes glassy—pupils blown so wide they’ve eaten all the blue and blood painting his lips and chin.

“If this is your idea of fun, I’m already bored,” he sneers. Rick smirks down at him, the expression looking far too sinister when stretched across that blunt muzzle, and Daryl can’t help but grin back and tip his head to the side to offer the nape of his neck and the arch of his throat. “C’mon, I thought you were going to make me _feel_ it,” he goads. Sunlight plays over their bodies, morphing their shadows grotesquely and marking Daryl’s scarred back with bars of black where it slants through Rick’s antlers.

“I will,” he’s promised, and then Rick pulls out slowly, making sure he feels every minute shift until he’s shuddering and keening. When just the head of the creature’s cock is inside of him, teasing him with what was and leaving him desperate for what is to come, Rick pauses. He fucking _pauses_ , and Daryl’s ready to bite at the closest part of the man he can reach, but then the hand around his throat presses harder, cutting off his air, and Rick _slams_ forward until his hips are flush against Daryl’s ass and thighs and his cock hits the archer’s prostate dead-center with enough force to make him _roar_ and startle every animal within at least fifty yards.

It _hurts_ , but the pain is edged in a white-hot pleasure that he doesn’t know how to handle. Daryl has never felt something so all-consuming, his labored breaths punched from his lungs until he’s wheezing out what little oxygen he can get. Rick isn’t letting go, isn’t letting him _breathe_ , and the world is blurring as dark spots freckle across his vision. It hurts, but it’s _so fucking good_ at the same time, and when he feels like he’s at the brink and ready to slip into unconsciousness, he’s released and sucks in gulps of air greedily. His cock is throbbing and twitching, drooling web-thin lines of pre-cum to the ground, and his mouth is overflowing with the saliva he can’t manage to swallow back as he pants and moans and spits weak curses while Rick laughs above him.

“That th’ best ya can do?” he rasps, glaring back over his shoulder, but he knows the look is weak and ineffective. He’s panting too hard, strangling his moans and his whines with every powerful thrust and clawing at the ground to try and keep himself upright. Rick isn’t human, isn’t caged in by weak human sympathies. Right now he’s a beast rutting, his strength too great and his pace the wrong shy of brutal. One strong, long arm covered in short, silky black fur wraps around Daryl’s chest like a vice and hauls him back until he’s straddling Rick’s thighs and facing forward, unable to get his feet beneath him well enough to ride the thick cock flaying him apart all the way down to his atoms. All he can do is cling to the arm holding him in place, nails digging in weakly and his head back against one narrow shoulder. He’s gasping and sobbing for air, his injured throat burning and tears trickling down his cheeks with every snag of the bulbous knot against his rim. And it _is_ a knot, he knows that well enough after countless dreams of feeling the same thing locked inside of him.

Words cannot describe how badly he needs more, how badly he needs _all of it_ , but he can’t even form the syllables. Every time he tries, gathering desperate words on his eager tongue, they tumble out in another keening cry and drip down his throat in a mixture of sweat and saliva. His eyes are wide and sightless, staring toward the sky but seeing nothing, and his nails dig into Rick’s forearm until blood drips from around his nails.

“I think I like you like this,” the beast rumbles, pleased by his own prowess as he rolls them over and gets Daryl on his knees again. The hunter almost doesn’t realize it, his muscles weak and spasming as he pants into the dirt and smears mud across his slicked skin. “This is how you’re meant to be, wild and untamed. Such a pretty little hunter. You want it so badly; just look at you. Where are your jeering words now, pet?”

“Shuddap,” Daryl moans, words fighting him out on a desperate sob, and he whines as he feels the swelling knot catch a little more against his rim in a spark of pain and pressure. It’s too big, too much for something so unused to anything so large, but fuck he _wants it_. He wants the stretch, the pressure, the feeling of being so full he can’t stand himself, and he’s rubbing his cheek into the dirt like a cat desperately seeking affection, mewling and seeking any scrap of whatever he can find that keeps him from flying apart at the seams.

It’s too late for that, though, Rick’s fingers like bands of iron around his throat again. The feeling is already familiar, already coveted, and he chokes on his own saliva as he aspirates it with an eager gulp of air. He chokes, spitting out more weak words that are too garbled to understand—too tangled for even his lust-soaked, unraveled mind to keep up with. His thoughts are a mantra of _more, more, please, more, give me more_ , and he can only faintly hope to whatever god exists that he’s not saying any of it out loud, because Rick is a relentless force of supernatural nature, something that shouldn’t feasibly exist in the real world, and if he goes harder, if he gives the archer _more_ like he’s already craving, it might actually kill him.

He wants it, though, his fingers curling weakly in the dirt and his knees bleeding from being scraped so badly against the rocks and twigs beneath him. Blood runs down his throat, rolling over his nipples and dripping down to his cock when Rick pulls him up again and fucks into his hot, aching hole again and again while his knot swells a little further.

“Say it,” he snarls, sharp fangs pressing at the juncture where Daryl’s throat and shoulder meet, dangerously sharp and unnatural where they tease at his skin. He knows what Rick wants, what he’s going to do regardless even if he doesn’t have verbal permission, because if Daryl didn’t want any of this he would have shot the beast between the eyes the second he stepped from the woods. He might have died trying to kill Rick— _would_ have died—but he would have caused as much damage as he could before he’d been torn apart and made a meal of. Rick is a creature incapable of love, driven only by his endless hunger, and whatever instincts are leading him to conquer the hunter moaning beneath him as they rut like beasts are demanding just that little bit more to cement his victory.

“Say it, pretty hunter, I want to _hear_ you give yourself to me,” he purrs, and Daryl gasps raggedly as he tries to get in enough air to speak. The fingers at his throat tighten a little bit, a warning and a promise both, and then they’re gone and his head drops forward, his dark, wet hair clinging to his nape and his bangs sticking to his cheeks.

“Fuck me,” he hisses, baring his teeth and moaning through the barrier of them. He’s beyond trying to win this, knows he never can, and he _loves it._ All his life he’s had to be the bigger predator, had to be stronger, because that was the only way he was going to survive. With a father like Will Dixon, there was no room for weakness. There was no chance for anything but violence, where the weak died bloody and the strong carried on with the scars to mark their battles.

Daryl is not weak. He is not some fragile, wispy wraith. He is power and blood and strength wrapped in corded muscle and snarling words. He does not go down easily, does not bow before a weaker man, and to be on his knees now, to be bent over with an inhuman cock slamming into his prostate again and again, battering at his body until he’s so overwhelmed he can hardly think, he finds a freedom he never thought he’d be given outside of his dreams. He finds a new strength, a new drive, and he turns his head just enough to look back at Rick with one narrowed black eye, the pale blue eclipsed by desire and primal lust.

“Give me it,” he demands, quiet and silky and ringing like certain damnation, and Rick’s black lips peel back from his teeth in a grisly, dangerous grin. His nose wrinkles, his blunt muzzle tilts, and Daryl’s attention is momentarily caught by the proud arch of the creature’s pitch-black antlers as they sway and move above him with every drive of Rick’s hips. They’re so unnatural, so beautiful, and Daryl never knew that anything so wholly unreal could ever be so physically appealing. Rick draws people in with the slow, low cadence of his words—tricks men and women alike with a pretty smile and the twinkle in his eye. He prowls through society and blends in with the humans who don’t know enough to recognize the monster that eyes them with a belly that growls from an unnatural hunger that will never be satisfied.

“Give you what?” Rick growls, his long tongue licking over the gleam of his teeth as he grins and waits. He presses his wide, dark nose just behind Daryl’s ear, the feeling of him drawing in deep, quick breaths making the archer tremble. Every catch of the knot against his swollen rim hurts now, the feeling of Rick’s cock pulling out leaving him gaping open and _needing_ , and when the pointed tip plays against his twitching hole, dipping just inside but not offering _nearly_ enough, Daryl finally snaps.

“Want yer knot,” he moans, and the words break something inside of him. He spirals higher than he’d ever thought possible for himself, finding a new strength amongst the shattered remains of the old that he’d never thought he could achieve. He digs his toes into the ground and rolls his hips back, fucking himself on Rick’s cock and shoving back until every inch is slammed inside of him and the knot is perfectly in place. The pressure is _obscene,_ saliva running from his mouth like water and tears flowing like rain from all of the warring sensations. His vision goes black, goes white, spots dancing in his periphery, the world blurring and reshaping itself around him as the muscles in his forearms become solid and tense and he uses the ground to brace and support himself as he rolls his hips weakly again and again. He remakes himself on Rick’s cock, grinding that swollen knot against all of the places that make him _scream_ , and his words are a hoarse, desperate howl when he finds them again.

“Gimme yer fuckin’ knot! Fuck, fuck, yes, please, knot me, fill me, fuck, _yes_!”

“There you are,” Rick croons, his fingers hot against Daryl’s sides and hips when he grabs hold of him and fucks him like a true beast, not pulling out an inch as he grunts and ruts and growls dangerously. His teeth touch Daryl’s nape, scraping over the top knob of his spine, and he only has time to suck in a quick breath before they’re piercing his flesh and sinking in. Blood runs hot and sticky between them, the beast’s knot expanding the rest of the way with a suddenness that makes the archer choke on a reedy scream, and he’s coming harder than he’s ever come before as his entire world explodes and reshapes itself. His nerves are singing, his synapses trembling, and his arms give out on him without him even realizing. He doesn’t hit the ground, held up by the arm around his chest that braces him easily.

He’s hauled up onto Rick’s lap again, the sudden shift grinding the creature’s knot deeper, and Daryl feels like he’s never going to stop coming, his screams scaring the forest into silence and his skin vibrating from the rumbling purr of Rick’s chest against his back and his teeth sunken so deeply into the hunter’s skin that he wonders if they’ll ever be separated again. He’s so full he hurts, his body battered and bruised and his blood spilling freely, but he has no fear of dying this day. He has no fear of death anymore at all, because with a creature like Rick—a beast birthed directly from twisted nightmares who _is_ death incarnate—at his back and firm against his fingertips, what need does Daryl have to fear anything?

He feels it when Rick starts to come, every throb and pulse making his oversensitive nerves shiver as he clenches around the thick cock inside of him. He shudders and whines, pleasure overwhelming him anew with every twitch. He’s already so full, the pressure edging into discomfort and pain, but he knows this is just the beginning. He knows he’ll never be left alone again, that he’s signed his own name into damnation forever. He’ll never be free, will always be hunted by Rick, but he doesn’t fear death or retribution if he slips away. This is their new game, their cat-and-mouse chase. Rick doesn’t want an easy victory, he’s already proved that. He wants a challenge, wants _Daryl_ for reasons wholly driven by instinct, and the hunter smirks weakly as his eyes flutter shut and he feels a few dribbles of cum leak out of him from the overwhelming amount Rick is still pumping inside of his rippling channel.

Something gives eventually, the pressure easing some, and Daryl looks down to see the slight swell of his abdomen that wasn’t there before. His hazy eyes widen, his breath hitching in a sharp gasp, and he rubs at the distention with fingers that are caked in dirt. Blood and mud swirls in abstract patterns over his scarred stomach, a painting of their own design that makes him purr like a satisfied cat, and he can barely even feel the pain of Rick’s teeth in his nape anymore. It doesn’t hurt, not like it probably should. Instead it feels _pleasant_ , grounding and calming, and he arches his neck a little to offer more of himself.

Dark fingers press against his, flattening his palm against his swelling stomach, and Daryl shudders with another quiet sound. He looks at the difference between them, his own long, elegant fingers compared to Rick’s longer, thinner ones. They’re covered in short, coarse fur, tipped by deadly black claws that are wet with the hunter’s blood, and he feels the rough scape of the beast’s palm against his sensitive knuckles. It makes him think of wolves and their paws, the rough pads offering protection from the terrain. It’s a strange thing to focus on, but Daryl’s mind is still a little jumbled and his thoughts are all over the place as he tries to piece himself back together after his shattering climax.

“Yer a fuckin’ monster,” he whispers, but there’s nothing scornful or bitter in his words. They’re light, awe-filled and excited. He’s always played in the darkness while striving for the light, but he’d _never_ known that beasts like Rick might be lurking in the shadows. It’s an exciting prospect, something that makes him wonder if there are others out there, too. There would have to be, Rick can’t be the only one, but as curious as Daryl is, he isn’t really interested in finding out.

The teeth finally leave his skin, blood dripping freely from the jagged wounds until he feels the beast’s long, talented tongue drag over the punctures again and again. He feels like he’s being groomed, his hurts being tended to the way a mate would do, but he’s not delusional enough to think this is anything close to how wolves or even _deer_ are with one another. There’s no gentleness between them, no soft touches or whispered words, and that’s _perfect_. Neither one of them were made for softness, too entrenched in the violence of their natures, and if this became anything but what it already is, Daryl doubts he would be able to handle it.

“And what does that make you, pretty hunter?” Rick hums, his deep voice low and thick with amusement. The hunter glances back at him, catches his swirling silver eyes, and smirks.

“Someone who fucked a monster,” he retorts dryly. “Guess tha’ makes me a monster in my own right.”

“Oh, darlin’, you were a monster long before I found you.” Rick presses against his stomach, and Daryl gasps sharply at the sensation as he feels more cum dripping out of him from around the plug of the creature’s knot. It hasn’t softened at all, the thick cock still hard inside of him, and each shift makes him bite his lip to force back his pathetic whimpers every time the head grinds over his prostate. Fuck, he never thought anything could feel so good and yet be so fucking _wrong_ at the same time. The thing that should probably be the most disturbing is how _undisturbed_ he is by all of it.

“That right?”

Daryl knows what he is, and he knows what he pretends to be. He tried to pretend, tried to be something that could pass for somewhat natural. He’s always been wild, never been someone who fit in easily with society, and for most of his life he was okay with that. There was nothing to be done about it, after all. No one could ever be a match for him, not the way he wanted. Sure, there were a few times where he thought _maybe_ , but it led to disappointment every time, and he’d resolved to either grit his teeth and bear it, or search for something _more_.

And then _more_ fell into his lap in a way he’d never expected, and when he shifts to test things, to see how the knot throbs inside of him and if he can get himself free yet, he grins at the way Rick’s arm tightens over his chest and forces him to be still. Teeth dig into the swell of his shoulder in warning, stilling him for the moment, and the hunter relaxes back against the thin, powerful chest behind him and looks up at the sky. It’s not cloudless anymore, clouds rolling across the fathomless blue and breaking up the perfection with dark grays and stark white.

There’s a storm rolling in, the scent heavy on the air, and he wonders if this rain will be a cleansing one, or if it’ll drown everything beneath its unstoppable force and wash away everything that wasn’t strong enough to withstand it. He wonders, too, if when he reaches out in search of help, if he’ll find a roughly-padded palm or the unforgiving bite of claws.

“It is,” Rick agrees, and his dark voice sounds like a promise that Daryl cannot wait to explore.


End file.
